


Rules of Engagement

by tahariel



Series: Backseat 'verse [5]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Dom/sub, Domestic, M/M, Rules
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-05
Updated: 2012-05-05
Packaged: 2017-11-04 21:15:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/398275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tahariel/pseuds/tahariel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik knows, objectively, that they are still very much in the honeymoon period of first bonding, but now that they've got to know each other in the Biblical sense, it's time to lay out the rules of their new life together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rules of Engagement

Erik knows, objectively, that they are still very much in the honeymoon period of first bonding, so overloaded on one another that it is almost impossible to overcome the serotonin poisoning of finally, finally having a sub of his own, of having someone so pliable and willing to belong to him, wanting to belong to Erik. But. Watching Charles wandering curiously around the living room of Erik’s apartment - new, a gift from his sister for his bonding - in nothing but Erik’s dress shirt, legs bare and too-long cuffs flapping over his hands, it is difficult to think objectively.

The couch Emma picked out is sinfully comfortable when he shifts in his seat, leaning back against the cushions and letting his eyes fall to half-mast. In contrast to what he’s allowed Charles, Erik has put on some loose pants and a shirt, though it’s unbuttoned at the collar. 

He has started a list of all the things about Charles that are perfect, from the tousled curl of his hair to the intelligence in his bright blue eyes - this is no vapid little creature, fit only to be bent over and left there until needed. It’s easy to add to his list when Charles is so responsive, letting Erik move him about and manhandle him with every sign of happy compliance and crying out so tenderly when Erik touches him, but even out of bed - when they finally get out of bed - there is so much there that Erik loves that he finds it hard to believe Charles is real, that Emma didn’t just pluck him from some obscure, poor family and pay them enough to let her reprogram his brain until he was perfect for Erik in every way.

Charles turns, and the collar around his throat gleams in the light, sleek and shining and marking him out as Erik’s as surely as the bruises on his neck where Erik bit and sucked at his flesh until the blood rose to the surface and Charles whined and pleaded with him not to stop.

“It’s lovely,” Charles says, and smiles, outlined against the backdrop of the city view behind him, bright blue sky and skyscrapers for miles, and not far off the wide dark water of the Hudson. The light illuminates the edges of him, shines through his hair like a halo. Charles has become more talkative over time, more likely to volunteer a comment rather than waiting to be spoken to - another good sign that Erik isn’t going to have to force Charles to be more than furniture, something he loathes above everything else in a sub. “Is it…”

“It’s mine,” Erik answers when Charles trails off, still wary of asking a question outright, and smiles, twitching two hooked fingers to indicate Charles should come back to him. His submissive starts back across the carpet immediately, skirting some sort of sculpture Emma must have picked out and hopping lightly down the two steps that lead up to the window, higher than the main living area. “We’ll live here from now on. Your sister is going to have your things sent over later in the week, once we’ve settled in.”

Charles pauses when he reaches Erik’s side, head tipping to one side as he clearly tries to decide how Erik wants him to place himself. Pleased, Erik tips his fingers towards the floor, shifting his feet to one side to make room. “Pull out the floor pad and kneel.”

It only takes a few moments for Charles to find the catch and pull out the cushioned pad on its silent runners, with a quiet click when it locks into full extension, and then he sinks gracefully to his knees beside Erik, tucking his bare feet up against his own thighs and laying his hands neatly in his lap. In the abeyant position he’s lowered his eyes, spine quite upright and head slightly bowed; Erik takes a moment to admire his form before reaching out a hand to cup the far side of Charles’ head and tug him gently towards Erik’s leg, pulling him closer until he is leaning against Erik’s calf, his temple pressed against the hollow at the outer edge of Erik’s knee. He strokes Charles’ hair slowly, rubbing one loose lock between his fingers - it’s very soft and clean, thick and appealing, and Charles makes a little sound and leans against Erik more naturally, relaxing his posture. If Erik cranes his neck a little he can see that the submissive’s eyes have slipped truly closed.

“We should talk about the rules,” he says, and Charles’ eyes open, flickering up toward Erik’s face for a moment before dipping again. “The bonding contract outlined my views on limits and boundaries, but now I am going to tell you what I expect of you. Feel free to ask as many questions as you like. I’m not going to trick you into disobeying. I want you to obey me - or not - because you choose to, though there will of course be consequences for disobedience.”

Charles merely nods, staying perfectly where Erik has put him.

Erik keeps his hand against the side of Charles’ head, reassuring. “You will take care of your personal safety above all else. At no time are you to put yourself in danger of injury for any reason. You will obey my orders at all times and without question. If you are truly unable to follow an order you may use your safewords - which we will agree upon next - and we will discuss the issue until it is resolved. Disobedience will be punished in a manner of my choosing and at my discretion. I will never punish you frivolously.” 

He pauses, assessing Charles’ expression, but his submissive appears perfectly calm, if thoughtful. “You will obey nobody other than myself without my direction, other than my sister Emma. My orders always supersede hers, no exceptions. Emma is not permitted to punish you, and if she or anybody else should attempt to, you are to resist by any means necessary. You are mine. You will not engage in any sexual activity of any kind with anybody other than me.”

A hand curls around his ankle tentatively, Charles’ arm coming around Erik’s calf more boldly when he does not object, and Erik bends to press a kiss to the top of Charles’ head, stroking his hand down to the pale column of Charles’ throat, teasing the bitemarks there with light brushes of his fingertips that elicit delicious shivers, the head against his knee tipping back to bare more to his touch. When Erik kisses Charles’ temple there is a flare of emotion and thought that he has no time to process, just a warm flush of closer contact that makes his skin prickle. 

So far Charles has kept his telepathy very much to himself, something Erik is aware of as a presence in the room beside him, like an invisible beast, brushing against him from time to time, like a cat twining around his ankles asking to be petted. It’s very different from the way Emma behaves, dipping in and out at will, not at all shy of her power. Erik was unexpectedly stymied at first, taken offbalance by the contrast, though perhaps he should not have been, given their relative orientations. Emma is a Dominant and his older sister, practically his second mother; Charles has no such claim over him, and less reason to know what Erik will permit. Instead of pulling away Erik does it again, presses his lips there and holds them for a long moment, until he can almost hear Charles’ voice in his head, like whispers in a distant room, too indistinct to distinguish words but there, nonetheless. 

“Regarding your power, you have permission to listen to my surface thoughts and feelings as you like, unless I say otherwise,” Erik says, and Charles does look up at him then, mouth falling open into an ‘o’ of surprise and forgetting his attempt at demureness to watch Erik’s eyes directly, his own wide and bright. “You may use your telepathy for anything with me that you have gained my permission for, but may not influence me in any way I have not permitted first. If I or my sister find that you have done so then you will be punished severely - ”

“I would never,” Charles interrupts, and then looks horrified with himself for interrupting.

“ - not that I expect you will,” Erik finishes, and tightens his grip on Charles’ throat, pulling his head into a near-painful stretch over the edge of the couch cushions that forces the sub to arch his spine to relieve a little of the pressure, a soft whine escaping him. “Don’t interrupt me when I’m speaking, Charles. I want you to talk freely with me unless I tell you otherwise, and to meet my eyes if you want to unless I tell you or indicate otherwise, but do not interrupt me when I am telling you something. If you cannot even listen to the rules, how can I trust you to follow them?”

“I’m sorry, please forgive me.” Charles’ voice is soft and begging, his eyes pleading. “I won’t do it again.”

Erik holds him there a little longer, making his point. “Yes, you will. But I will forgive you this time.”

Charles’ mind against his is adamantly denying it, but he says nothing, and so Erik lets him go, and waits to see if Charles will pull away.

He doesn’t. He stays where he is, his arm curling further around Erik’s calf to hold it close, as though he’s worried _Erik_ will pull away from _him_.

“I don’t expect you to get all of it right all of the time,” Erik says, and lets his hand move back to Charles’ hair, feels the tension in him relax again against Erik. “I only expect you to try for me.”

It’s utterly astounding to have somebody lean on him like this, trusting Erik with his submission and yet so strong. If Charles wanted to he could probably twist Erik’s mind so far around that Charles could be the Dominant and Erik the submissive, and neither Erik nor anyone else they came into contact with would know any better. The easy way he goes to his knees, his wide eyes and soft mouth all make him seem delicate, docile, but his shoulders are broad and strong, his body compact but capable. And yet Charles bends when Erik pushes, and lets Erik move him as he chooses, is calmer when Erik touches him, even when he’s forceful.

Charles tips his head to the side and bares his throat without any direction from Erik, his eyes slipping half-closed and content. Erik feels his heart swell. “We need to agree on safewords for you to use if you ever reach a point at which you need me to stop whatever I am doing. One to tell me when you are nearly at your limit for what you can handle, and one for when you need things to stop immediately. If you use them, I will stop. You can pick whatever words you want. If you are unable to speak we will use hand signals, and we will agree on those too. We will also have a word for when you are alright to continue. If I ask if you are alright, you will answer me honestly at all times. Do not try to pretend you are okay if you’re not. What words would you like to use?”

There is a long moment of silence, but Erik lets it hang, waits for an answer. 

“Verdigris,” Charles says slowly, sounding out the word as though it tastes good. “Goldenrod. Carmine.”

Erik huffs, amused. “I suppose it’s an improvement on ‘green, yellow, red.’ And where are you now, Charles?”

“Verdigris,” and Charles smiles sweetly, quietly knelt by Erik’s feet.

 

~*~

 

They explore the kitchen together, opening cupboards and drawers to find what Emma has had left for them. Erik could tell even before looking that everything that can be is made of stainless steel - he can feel it singing out from everywhere in the kitchen, even the appliances brushed metal gleaming under the overhead lights - and the refrigerator is stocked with all sorts of fresh ingredients, not a pre-prepared meal in sight. Moira’s always trying to get him to eat healthy, and he feels his sister’s sub’s hand here as he contemplates the jar of chicken stock, the little pots of pesto and olives and various cheeses she’s left in there for him. Moira is rather pointed in her passive-aggressive way of putting her meaning across without ever directly confronting him.

“Shouldn’t I be cooking for you?” Charles asks as Erik pulls out the pesto, parmesan and some fresh chicken, looking around in the cabinets to find the sundried tomatoes and olive oil he knew had to be here somewhere. 

“Can you cook?” A quirk of Charles’ mouth answers that one, and Erik chuckles, finds the fresh pasta and cream in the refrigerator as well and lays it all out on the countertop. “I like cooking. Don’t worry about it. Sit down.”

A moment of concentration has the drawers pulling open and the right equipment floats out, the gas hob flicking on to start warming a frying pan; the olive oil is in a metal-banded glass bottle so he can tip that in with his power. He has to grab the wooden chopping board with his hands, but then it’s easy to direct a knife to start chopping up the chicken, and a grater to take itself to the parmesan. A pan fills itself with water - it takes a moment to work out how the tap turns, but then it’s easy - and he sets that to boil, very carefully does not pay too much attention to the nudge of outside fascination in his mind observing the magnetic lines Erik is manipulating to move the various implements around, like a topographic map of the metal in the kitchen. Charles’ thoughts creeping into his are like a soft footfall, non-intrusive, and Erik opens as much as he can without losing his focus, tipping the chicken into the pan to start frying.

“Your medical sheet said you didn’t have any special dietary restrictions, so I hope this is something you’ll eat,” he says belatedly, directing a spoon to start stirring as he cuts up the tomatoes. “We’ll agree on groceries when we next need food. If there’s anything you don’t eat, let me know.”

“This is fine. Thank you,” Charles says, chin propped up on one hand where he’s perched in one of the high chairs at the kitchen island, Erik’s shirt barely covering the tops of his thighs. It’s enough to distract Erik for a moment and have him tipping the pasta into the water from rather too high, splashing water out over the top of the pan so that it sizzles on the stovetop. “It smells really good.”

Erik smiles, adding the cream and pesto to the chicken. “Good. It’ll be ready in a minute. Set the table.”

He turns his attention back to the food as Charles pads around him, opening cupboards and drawers until he finds the plates and cutlery, laying them on the island with quiet clinks against the granite before going for the glasses; Erik thinks loudly about the jug of cold water in the fridge and Charles goes to fetch it, pouring it out just as Erik drains the pasta and adds it to the chicken, stirring it once more and turning to decant it onto the plates. “Here,” and Charles takes the plate from his hand, waiting until Erik has started to eat before starting in on it himself.

They eat in near-silence for a few minutes, sat shoulder-to-shoulder, Charles’ mind comfortably holding hands with his, like a drowsy cat curled up in the corner, one eye slitted open and watching thoughts go by. Erik gives in to the impulse to kiss Charles’ hairline, though his lips are a little slick with oil from the pasta, and Charles makes a quiet noise, foot moving sideways to brush against Erik’s ankle, toes curling in the fabric of his pants.

“My sister told me you’re studying for a PhD,” Erik says eventually, when he’s finished his dinner and Charles is just finishing his, taking a sip of water. “Mutant Genetics?”

The submissive nods, putting down his fork and letting his hands fall into the neutral position in his lap. “Yes, at Columbia.”

“I work not far from there. I’ll take you in with me in the mornings and we’ll come back together at the end of the day, excepting days when either of our schedules doesn’t allow for that.”

He’s pleased when Charles only hesitates a moment before asking, “What do you do?”

“Your sister didn’t tell you?”

“I may not have been listening again,” Charles admits sheepishly, looking down and away. “Raven always seems to wait until I’m working to tell me things, and sometimes I get caught up and I don’t realise we’ve been having a conversation.”

Erik takes Charles’ chin between his thumb and finger and lifts his head until Charles meets his eyes, holds him there. “Always listen to me when I’m talking to you. I won’t interrupt your work without need, but if I start talking to you, put your pen down and your hands in your lap. That should help you pay attention to me instead of your studies.”

Charles swallows, face heating. “Yes, Erik.”

“Good.” He lets go, sitting back in his seat and admiring Charles’ flush. “I’m an engineer. I work for Stark Industries.”

“Oh! My friend Tony works there,” Charles says. Erik smells a rat.

“Your friend Tony Stark?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “My boss?”

“Everyone knows Pepper is the real boss,” Charles says, but he’s smiling when he ducks his head this time. “It’s why Uncle Howard let her have Tony. He could never have been named CEO otherwise, the board would never have stood for it in anything more than name.”

For Erik, who had spent the first twelve years of his life living in relative poverty with his mother before her death, it is a little strange to find himself sat here at the age of twenty-nine, bonded to somebody who has clearly had the same silver spoon in his mouth as _Tony Stark_ since birth, in the kitchen of their new apartment and thinking only of all the things he could do with that silver spoon if it were less figurative. Charles makes a curious noise, and Erik considers for a moment before reaching for those memories and unfolding them for him, the way Emma taught him - like opening a box. Of his mother raising him alone, the child of a short-lived relationship she had not known was an affair at the time; of growing up without much to call his own, and then her death, and a grown-up half-sister coming to pick him up at the hospital, one he hadn’t known he had. Of moving in with Emma and Moira. His life has two very distinct parts, Before Emma and After Emma - like two different boys, two different lives entirely. He can hear Charles’ tentative thought as he looks and considers and absorbs what Erik is showing him that perhaps, one day, it will be Before Charles and After Charles. 

“Would you like that?” Erik asks aloud, and when Charles blushes he strokes his finger along the edge of the pinkened skin, soft against the stubble that’s coming in now that Charles hasn’t had a chance to shave. Maybe that’s something Erik can do for him later - Charles shivers, biting at his lower lip, and it takes an effort of will not to replace his sub’s teeth with his own, to bend in and nip until it swells, but Erik manages somehow, getting to his feet. “Now. I suspect your sister will be agitating at home waiting for you to call. You should give her a ring.”

“Yes, Erik,” Charles says, and goes to fetch the telephone. Erik leaves the plates where they are for Charles to clear up later and watches the man settle in on the floor by the window, curled between the glass and the wall, the way his face lights up when someone answers. He’s beautiful when he smiles.

Erik goes to the study to give him some privacy, and closes the door behind himself. Later he gets Charles to sit on the edge of the bathtub and glides the razor slick and slow across the stubbled skin until they’re both panting and foam-spattered, the blade gently removing the short hairs while his submissive holds perfectly still for him, head tipped back to give him better access.


End file.
